


Sluice

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Grooming, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Rain, Smut, everything's better with water, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course it would start raining, Stiles thinks, as he trudges through the woods, slipping on wet foliage every few yards, so that by the time he's within sight of the Hale house, he's soaked, and his hands and knees are filthy.</p><p>He wonders, again, why he feels the need to do this...Derek's a big boy wolf, hell, he's the Alpha...but he can still bleed, can still die – Peter's death proves that – and maybe that won't happen if somebody has his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sluice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cedelede](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedelede/gifts).



> For cede, who agrees with me that everything is better with water... Hope you like it, babe, and that it at least distracts you from the pain. Beta'd by saredon, cause that's how we roll.

Of course it would start raining, Stiles thinks, as he trudges through the woods, slipping on wet foliage every few yards, so that by the time he's within sight of the Hale house, he's soaked, and his hands and knees are filthy. This is just his usual luck. He wipes his face off with his forearm, belatedly realizing he's probably just smeared it with dirt, but then again, droplets are pouring down so hard that it will probably wash clean if he just pauses and turns his face into the downpour.

 

Stiles doesn't pause.

 

He wonders, again, why he feels the need to do this, why, when Allison casually mentions her grandfather is coming to town to stay, he drops his bag of Cheetos, mid munch, and heads out the door. Derek's a big boy wolf, hell, he's the _Alpha_ \- it's not like he'd let someone get the drop on him, or if he did, that he couldn't take care of himself. But maybe Stiles still remembers the deathly pale, slick sweat sheen of Derek's face when he was slowly dying from Kate's bullet, or the shock in his eyes as Peter gutted him in the school parking lot, or the way his body looked bent up wrong as he dragged himself from his uncle on his elbows, doing everything he could to lead him away from Stiles.

 

Derek might not like him, but that night he almost died trying to keep him alive. Maybe Derek is all badass now, on a whole different level than before, but he can still bleed, can still die – Peter's death proves that – and maybe that won't happen if somebody has his back.

 

(Somebody other than Scott, whose verbal skills have regressed to  _Allison_ and  _Not fair_ and  _Why me_ , or Jackson, who, despite becoming slightly less assholish since getting the bite, still acts far too much like an entitled douchebag to be self sacrificing unless Stiles shames him into it.)

 

So yeah, Stiles thinks that's probably why he's slogging through mud, t-shirt plastered to his torso and jeans an uncomfortable, stuck on mess. He'll take a year to dry out, and it won't be until he gets home. God knows Derek probably still has no electricity, much less heat – and really, shouldn't he be looking into getting an apartment these days? Creeper or no creeper, there's such a thing as buying too much into the whole supernatural ambiance thing.

 

He starts to cross the clearing around the house – he refuses to call it a yard, because a yard would imply some sort of livable maintenance, and this one has weeds up to his knees – when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, at the side of the house.

 

'Derek!' he hollers, but either Derek is ignoring him, or the rain drowns out his voice. While the downpour has reached a certain level where the latter is a possibility, he doesn't rule out the former, either, so he switches directions toward the flash of pale he'd seen, muttering under his breath about the lack of Stiles Appreciation Derek's pack seems to be afflicted with. He's so distracted with his mental ramblings and making sure his feet don't slip out from underneath him, that he doesn't look up again until he breaks at the corner, bracing against the side with his hand to catch his breath.

 

It's a wasted effort, because when he does raise his head, all his breath escapes in a little  _eep_ , and he realizes it was definitely the latter, because, dude – Derek is  _naked_ . Okay, not like  _naked_ naked, but his boxers briefs are just as plastered to his body as Stiles' jeans are to his, so he may as well be, and there's water, like, sluicing – and oh god, did he actually just use the word  _sluicing_ in reference to Derek Hale and water - 

 

Derek's back is to him and he's got his hands in his hair and after Stiles' brain reboots from where ever it had crumbled to, he realizes there's a shampoo bottle on the ground. And yeah, he's made a few fabulous jokes about how, in fact, Derek manages to stay clean when his house doesn't even have running water, but he hadn't actually thought - 

 

'What do you do when it doesn't rain?' he blurts out, because, lets be honest, he's not exactly known for tact or subtlety.

 

Derek swings around, and if he's surprised to see Stiles at all, he doesn't show it, still loose limbed and relaxed in his quasi-nudity, like only someone who obviously knows he's attractive would be.

 

'Stiles,' he nods. Then jerks his head toward the back of the house. 'There's the creek.'

 

Right. Of course. 'You could, you know, get running water. Or, like, an apartment that's structurally sound.' It's a valid suggestion, because really, he imagines this has to be cold as fuck in the winter, even with the extra heat Derek carries.

 

Derek shrugs. 'I like the rain.'

 

He cocks his head to the side, like he's just realized it's a little weird for Stiles to be there, soaking wet, in the middle of a summer storm. That there might be something  _just a little uncomfortable_ about standing around mostly naked with him. It's not like this is the school locker room. Stiles thinks he'll get the hint and go put some clothes on, but instead he takes a couple of steps in Stiles direction and says,

 

'You've got mud all over you.'

 

'Yeah, well, you know...stumbling and falling...it's kind of my thing.'

 

Derek gestures at him. 'Come here.'

 

Stiles just stares at him, because in a matter of minutes, this whole situation, this whole day has become so weird that he's not sure he's properly processing events, maybe like a plane crash survivor or a lottery winner or  _hey_ , a guy who's managed to somehow survive multiple werewolf attacks. 

 

When it becomes obvious he's not going to obey, Derek leans toward him, hooks his hand behind Stiles' neck and tugs him forward, pushing his thumb into the space where Stiles' jaw and neckline meet. He nudges his head up until Stiles' face is bared to the rain and he has to squinch his eyes shut to keep from being blinded.

 

There's a hand brushing over his cheeks and he realizes with a jump in his stomach that Derek is... _cleaning_ him. He feels like Alice in the rabbit hole, or Bizarro Superman, because what the hell? There's the light rub of a fingertip across his chin and then Derek lets up the pressure on his neck, enough so that Stiles can drop his head down. He starts to wipe the water from his eyes but realizes that will just defeat the purpose, so instead he blinks rapidly a few times until he can see Derek, still standing there, with his usual expression of blank grouchiness firmly in place.

 

'Um...thanks?' He guesses that's an appropriate response to a werewolf washing your face, instead of ripping it off. Derek doesn't respond, just examines him critically for a minute, just long enough for Stiles to notice the rain has let up some. It's not so much a deluge as it is a steady pour now.

 

'Take your shirt off.' Derek says abruptly, ripping apart the silence that had settled between them.

 

'Uh..what?'

 

Derek shakes his head like Stiles is the biggest idiot in the world, and really, that's totally not fair, because he thinks he's earned the right to be just a little bit confused at this point. Or a lot confused. And a little quasi-turned on, if Stiles is being honest. Which he always is. At least inside his own head. He doesn't even feel weird about that part – and  _that_ ' _s_ probably a bit weird in and of itself – because there's rain and muscle and looming and he's only seventeen.

 

'You're filthy.' For one heart stopping moment Stiles thinks Derek is responding to the thoughts in his head, but he's gesturing at the dirt ground into his shirt and elbows and palms, which makes a lot more sense. 'Bathe.'

 

'Uh..no?' He crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits in silent protest, because he has a perfectly good shower at home, one that's warm, and will only have one person in it, namely him. Plus, he's just gonna have to put his shirt back - 

 

'Gah!' he screeches, because he's forgotten Derek is a) stronger and b) used to getting his way, and he's gripped the bottom of Stiles' shirt and rucked it over his head before he can even try to fight back.

 

'Jesus! Seriously, Derek!' He's suddenly painfully aware that the rain has made his nipples hard and he recrosses his arms defiantly. 'I'm just going to have to put them back on to go home! I'll still be wet and dirty. And there's a _reason_ I actually came out here - '

 

'You'll borrow something from me. And wait the storm out.' The order is handed down in that imperious, I-Am-Alpha-Hear-Me-Roar tone that just  _makes_ Stiles sass back.

 

'Excuse me, but last I checked, I wasn't sporting a tail, so you don't get to ord - ' The rest of his sentence dies on his tongue, because Derek is  _touching_ him, picking bits and pieces of leaf and dirt off his chest and stomach, and rubbing his thumbs at spots of ground in dirt. The arousal isn't quasi anymore, because there's just too much skin on skin, and he tries hard not to think about how he's getting closer and closer to naked, and he's really glad he's got on jeans that will at least hide the fact he's packing an erection that's just this side of painful.

 

He slaps at Derek's hands. 'What the hell are you doing?'

 

Derek avoids his flailing easily, says absentmindedly, 'Grooming.'

 

Stiles whole body relaxes – except for his dick, which apparently didn't get the message – because this,  _this_ makes some kind of sense. 'Oh. Oh. Is this a pack thing?' He hasn't really considered himself actual pack, more like pack adjacent, but maybe Derek sees it differently. 'You do this to Scott and Jackson, too?'

 

Derek shrugs again, which is about as non-answer as an answer can get, but Stiles takes it as confirmation, because it's easier to deal with that way. 'Okay. Um...Okay.' He's seen the puppy pile thing, kind of been forced into it a few times; he's gotten used to the fact that the werewolves touch more casually than humans, and if he can put this in that context, then it's okay. It's normal. Nothing to feel uncomfortable with at all.

 

'So...yeah,' he feels a bit stupid with his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. 'Is this...is this supposed to be reciprocal or something?'

 

He thinks he hears Derek snort, but screw him, because it's not like anyone gifted him with a  _Werewolves for Dummies Manual_ – he has yet to call him on it, but he's fairly confident Derek didn't get one either. He's running his palm up Stiles' arm now, to his elbow, turning it so that it's up to the rain and he can rub at the grime there. One corner of his mouth is canted up as he says offhandedly, 'If you want.'

 

Stiles isn't sure he  _wants_ to do anything, except he kind of sort of does, but all that muscle is intimidating in a way it hasn't been before, so he does what any self respecting coward would do and starts with the hair. It's surprising, how soft it is. Maybe it's because Derek isn't soft anywhere else, nothing but muscle and sinew, that Stiles expects his hair to be wiry, coarse, but even under all the wet, he can tell it's almost baby fine between his fingers. He cards through the thickness with his free hand, flopping it this way and that and curling it around his pinky.

 

'Stiles,' Derek says eventually, and he figures it's because he's decided that at this point Stiles is more or less molesting his head. Stiles moves to withdraw but Derek only says, 'Turn your head to the side.'

 

Guessing he's found another chunk of mud – and  _seriously_ how did he manage to fall so many times? - Stiles complies, only for his breath to freeze in his lungs when Derek leans close and runs his tongue across Stiles' collar bone. His hips jerk reflexively, painfully, and he can't stop himself from looking down, checking to see if his hard on is as obvious as he feels.

 

It is, but that's not what makes the air woosh from his mouth in a noise that sounds embarrassingly close to a whimper. Somehow, in all of this, he's pushed Derek's state of dress to the side – probably out of self preservation – but his boxer briefs are still clinging just as much as before, and if Stiles is hard, Derek is equally so, his erection pushing against the cotton so that it tents out just inches from pressing into Stiles.

 

When he meets Derek's eyes, the Alpha's expression is neutral, his hand resting lightly around Stiles' ribs, just below his nipple; waiting for his reaction, Stiles thinks.

 

'Do...' Stiles voice cracks and he licks his lips and starts over. ' _Do_ you do this with Scott and Jackson?' There's a lot he's willing to do for pack dynamics, but he draws the line at freaky sexual - 

 

Derek huffs and answers flatly, 'No.'

 

'Oh my God...you think I'm some kind of Omega, don't you?' And he's  _this_ close to wrenching away and running, because he knows about Omegas, seen those nature films, and just...just because he sometimes takes Scott's or Jackson's or Derek's shit and doesn't start a fight, doesn't mean he's weak or available for  _use_ – He thinks he feels a panic attack coming on.

 

Derek looks annoyed now. 'No,' he says again. 'You're not a werewolf; how could you be an Omega? And even if you were one of us, you wouldn't be an Omega. Way too mouthy.' His eyes flick to Stiles lips and stay there.

 

'Oh,' is all Stiles can manage, because he's right back to being confused, and then Derek steps into him, pushing them flush, thigh to thigh. He can feel the heat radiating between them, the water dripping from Derek's hair falling and running down Stiles' face.

 

'Oh,' he stupidly says again.

 

'Stiles,' Derek's voice is measured, deliberate. 'I'm going to touch you now –' and Stiles is pretty sure he's not talking picking dirt off his body. '– if you don't want that, you need to walk into the house right now. Get some clothes from my room. I'll be in in a little bit.'

 

But Stiles can't move, because Derek's still staring at his mouth, and the rain is muffling any sound but their breathing, and he can can feel Derek pressing hard against his belly –

 

Derek kisses him, lush and open, backs him up until he's trapped between the older boy's body and the house, the siding pressing uncomfortably into his hips and spine. The noises he's making are wounded, desperate, and he's scrabbling against Derek's shoulders, pushing him away – no, pulling him closer, licking into his mouth as obscenely as Derek is licking into his. Everything is wet, and slippery, and Derek's making barely audible growling noises when he reaches between them and jerks his briefs down, letting his cock free, then does the same thing with Stiles jeans. Just shoves them down his hips and reaches into his boxers, fists both their dicks in his hand and keeps kissing Stiles as he starts jacking them off.

 

It's like everything about Derek: rough and fast and barely contained, and Stiles is coming in seconds, making a sharp sound into Derek's mouth. Derek swallows it as he keeps rutting against him; lips not so much kissing now as just sharing the same air as Stiles, the same stuttered breaths and nonsensical noises, until he comes, too, burying his head in Stiles' shoulder as he shudders and braces one hand on the wall beside his head.

 

The rain's tapered off to a light mist now, and Stiles still doesn't know what happened, or why, but he doesn't protest when Derek pulls his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off, stepping on the heels of his sneakers to free his feet. Derek's briefs are discarded, too, and he doesn't speak, only rests his nakedness against Stiles', his lungs pressing when Stiles' retreats, and vice versa. Stiles is running his hand up and down Derek's spine, the strokes somehow more comforting than sexual, as if  _Derek_ is somehow the one who's had his world flipped upside down in the space of minutes. 

 

Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, but Stiles is sometimes a ridiculous person, so he doesn't stop.

 

 


End file.
